The Doña made a little sign to Arnold, and they both got up and left the room, Dick suspiciously following them with his eyes.
The talk and laughter like waves went on beating round Teresa.
Now Guy was turning frantic glances towards her and talking louder and more shrilly than usual—evidently he thought he was saying something particularly brilliant, and wanted her to hear it.
“Bergson seems to look upon the intellectuals as so many half-witted old colonels, living in a sort of Bath, at any rate a geometrical town—all squares and things, and each square built by a philosopher or school of thought: Berkeley Square, Russell Square, Oxford Crescent....”
“Well, the War did one good thing, at any rate, it silenced Bergson,” said Harry impatiently, “I don’t think he has any influence now, but not being er ... er ... a Fellow of King’s, I’m not well up in what ... er ... the young are thinking.”
“Oh well, here are the young—you’d better ask ’em,” chuckled Dick, since the departure of his wife and son, once more quite natural and genial: “Anna, do you read Bergson?”
“No!” she answered sulkily and a little scornfully—she liked the “grown-ups” to pay her attention, but not that sort of attention.
“There you are, Harry!” chuckled Dick triumphantly; though what his cause was for triumph must remain a mystery.
“Quite right, old thing! I don’t read him either—much too deep for you and me. What are you reading just now?” said Rory, beckoning her to his side.